


Precious Stillness

by InfernalPume



Category: SKC - continuity, Star vs. The Forces Of Evil
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Meet-Cute, Sort Of, didnt get to that last part quite yet, maybe will continue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-24
Updated: 2018-01-24
Packaged: 2019-03-09 01:36:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13470936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InfernalPume/pseuds/InfernalPume
Summary: All he wanted was some peace and quiet, he just wanted to read.





	Precious Stillness

Oivan had grown fond of the stillness. 

 

By forces natural or supernatural, his library was never disturbed by bothersome things such as wind or light. When objects fell the clatter was distant and muffled, and when he spoke the voice was like a whisper in the ear. Candles flickered, yes, but they never illuminated much further than a few feet, no matter how many were accumulated. Between hallways and bookshelves there were always patches of darkness and silence. When he moved Oivan was the only life do to so. 

 

This was a good thing, Oivan didn't have time for distraction. Countless billions of dreamers provided a constant stream of experiences and information, there was rarely a moment to be lost sorting through their memories. Oivan wasn't quite sure what he  _was_ exactly*, but whatever that might be he was the only one who could organise the dreamers' scattered thoughts into something productive. 

 

That was why Oivan always knew when the library had a visitor. Their very presence, often still carrying lights and sounds from the waking dimensions, were so bright and noisy even in ambience. Their skin caught the candles in ways that were alien to his library, and the mere sounds of their organs squelching and taking in air were deafening against the serine silence he was used to.

 

Visitors were rare of course, but in Oivan’s opinion, not rare enough. Time was slow in this place so that there would be more of it for his work, any interference from the outside felt frequent. Incessant. _Distracting._

 

He remembered his first visitor. She was some sort of chiefess who had come to find a military advantage over a land to which she was entitled. Her poise was elegant, her language only thinly veiled her xenophobia, the only way to get her to leave was to give her some musty old tome of basic magic. She had left, heralding the tome as her birthright, and once again Oivan had his stillness.

 

Not long after, or so it had felt, Oivan was confronted by a demon, like himself. She was impatient, dazzling,  _loud,_ and made of the very same flames of Oivan’s candles. Whatever reason she had come, it was forgotten by her irritation over her difficulties traveling here. She stayed longer then the chiefess, experimenting with metals and molten brews, and finally cut through the edges of the Dreamlands themselves to travel home. Oivan now had a collection of her prototype blades, still humming with her noise, which he slid into a drawer for further inspection.

 

Next was a beast with the heart of a man, no matter how Oivan refused to help him with his matters of that heart he would not be satisfied until he had devoured every ballad of star-crossed lovers for inspiration. Confident he could now court his forbidden princess, the monster left.

 

There were more after that. A mother who wished to protect her child, a monster who wanted invulnerability and immortality for his army, none who would just let Oivan _work_.

 

By the time a young demon came to his library Oivan didn’t care what his request was. Didn’t even look up from his book as he pointed to the shelves dedicated to powerful magic. Perhaps Oivan should have looked up to see the insanity in his eyes, maybe pointed the boy in a different direction, for that was not the last he would see of the Nightmare King.

 

* An element, an incarnation, some manner of celestial librarian, though he looked and felt like a demon Oivan was acutely aware he had been something else entirelybefore. 

* * *

 

 

Stillness after that. Blessed stillness once again, no matter how fleeting. The demon boy came back to the Dreamlands regularly, but far away from Oivan’s library and even further from his caring. Oivan was too engrossed in his reading to even feel the tugging of magic, the formation of a new kingdom, the tyranny of its monarch and the abuse of his bride. The boy visited again once or twice, Oivan was pleasantly surprised to find his heart had stopped its incessant racket and was no longer a distraction. For that alone he was welcome within the library, or rather, less unwelcome than everyone else.

 

Lunchtime approached, Oivan put down his quill to make himself a cup of tea. Though his muscles were sore from hours spent at his desk his mind raced with his previous projects, and almost didn’t notice a shimmering green luminescence flit across the darkness.

 

Oivan blinked, fixed his spectacle’s position on his nose, and foolishly tried to hold out his candle to see who was there. The light caught nothing, as he should have known. Oivan sighed and continued on his way. His eyes must have been playing tricks on him, and more importantly, he needed to eat. It was important feed himself, no matter how infrequently, to at least keep up the  _illusion_ of living. Though Oivan's body was merely a reflection of his mind, his mind still clung to old habits. If he believed he  _should_ be weakened by hunger, he inevitably would be.

 

Oivan made his way to the spire he had designated as his bedroom. Underneath his bed would be the rations he had saved from his last attempt at feeding himself, likely still warm from when he had cooked them. The wooden stairs did not creak as he climbed them, his soft footsteps made no noise at all.

 

So when he heard the thumping of bare feet on wood, he knew it couldn’t have been his imagination.

 

Oivan turned to stare out at the dark spiral staircase, yellow eyes glancing around for any movement. Stillness, his precious and beloved stillness, only disturbed by the dim flickering of his candle. But still Oivan stayed vigilant, then opened his mouth to break the silence.

 

“Who is there?” He called out, his own voice unfamiliar in his ears after years of disuse, “Show yourself!”

 

His acute ears heard no pulse, no breathing, but in the moment he rose his voice, a faint thudding of heels on the floor once again. Whatever it was, it was running away from him. Afraid of being discovered. 

 

Well, that was no matter. Oivan didn’t particularly _want_ to discover it anyway, and if it managed to be quiet enough to evade his notice up until this point he had no reason to bother.

 

“Read what you want,” he called to it, “I don’t care. Do not disrupt my business again.”

 

With that Oivan turned back to the stair, continuing his ascent to his room. Or at least he would have, for only three steps later he leapt back with a most ungentlemanly shriek and topped horns-over-heels down the stairs.

 

At the landing of the flight he gripped the railing so as not to fall any further, and felt for his candle in terror.

 

A gasp, followed by hurried rushing to where Oivan lay in the darkness.

 

His candle lay snuffed beside him, but he could hear those naked heels _thudding_ down quickly after him. Again, Oivan lurched backwards, before catching glimpse of a green glow.

 

Spirals, glowing green spirals like those of an aurora, lit the face of girl as she rushed after him. The light seemed to emanate from her markings, a succubine in the same genus of Oivan himself, and they illuminated her worried expression. She did not make it to his side before he swatted her hands away.

 

“What are you _doing?_ ” He spat, “This is no place for games! You could have _killed_ me!”

 

The girl shrank back, her glow dimming, before she reconsidered and bristled at him.

 

“Hey- it was an _accident_!” she said, “It’s your fault for keeping these stairs so dark! That’s a health violation!”

 

 “A- Wh- Health…” Oivan spluttered, “You were _hiding!_ ”

 

The girl’s glow flared up with a green blush, before she crossed her arms and looked away.

 

“I was only hiding because your castle is so _creepy_!” she cried, “I had no idea where your voice was coming from!”

 

“It’s a library.” Oivan said flatly.

 

The girl snorted and waived a dismissive hand.

 

“Libraries are just castles for books.”

 

Oivan rolled his eyes, he didn’t have to put up with this. With the girl’s diminishing glow, he picked up his candle and ignited it with a spark of his talons.

 

“Furthermore, I _cannot_ light the entirety of the Library. Light doesn’t travel naturally here as it does in the Underworld, or whatever dimension you came here from.” His lip curled as he spoke the name of the waking world, “And either way, most find libraries to be a rather disrespectful place for _practical jokes._ ”

 

“I told you it was an _accident!_ ” she said, stamping her foot, then sobered somewhat. “…And I’m not _from_ anywhere else…”

 

This caused Oivan to pause, looking her over. Only now did he realise she had no pulse of her own. Though she breathed, she did so silently, and to no effect. 

 

“Ah,” he said, taken by how _young_ she was compared to the others, “Well, in any case, the Library is _closed._ Be gone, little ghost.”

 

With that he carried on his way, swiftly climbing the stairs before she could chase after him and offer more squabbling, only to suck in a startled breath when she miraculously appeared before him once again.

 

“I’m _not_ a ghost!” she said, “I’m the Queen of the Dreamlands!”

 

There was silence, Oivan looked at her stern face waiting for it to break with humour or nerves.

 

“No,” he felt the need to point out, “No, you are not.”

 

The girl’s outrage made her spirals glow all the brighter, “I am _too!_ ”

 

Oivan shoved past her, resolving not to care if she followed him or not, “The Dreamlands has no Queen,” he said, “The Dreamlands isn’t a Kingdom- or even a proper _dimension._ ”

 

Behind him he heard a groan of outrage and she was before him once more.

 

“How would _you_ know that if you never leave this creepy castle?”

 

“Library.”

 

_“Nerd castle.”_

 

Oivan stopped at this, not recognising the word itself but knowing by its pronunciation to be an insult. He growled out a sigh and kept walking. Whatever had inspired the girl to follow him seemed to wear off, as he did not see or hear her voice pipe up again. He made it to his food, ate, and returned to his work, confident that the girl would not bother him again.

 

* * *

 

 

This confidence was ill conceived, the next time he saw her was sitting on his bed with her hand in his jar of rations.  

 

She didn’t notice him at first, was looking up at some machination within her own mind, the crumbs of his lava-dipped biscotti sprinkled on her face. Oivan had to keep very calm as he marched up to her and snatched the jar away, awakening her from whatever trance she was in.

 

“Hey!” she said, looking up at whoever had disturbed her. Eyes falling on Oivan, her spirals flushed but she scowled nonetheless, “What do _you_ want?”

 

“I want? _I want?_ I want to know why you’re still in my library eating my food!”

 

The girl sat up and crossed her arms, “It isn’t your library! I did some poking around and read all about this place. It’s been here longer then demons have even existed!”

 

Her expression faltered somewhat as she looked down at his jar, “…and I thought those were for everybody.”

 

Oivan wanted to pull his horns off.

 

“Everybody?!” he choked out, between a sob and a crazed laugh, _“I’m the only person here!”_

 

“That’s not true,” the girl said primly, “I looked it up. Apparently, this library has always been a resource for Dreamers. I can be here if I want.”

 

This made Oivan pause. She could have only read this in the Book of Memories, one of the core vital pillars of the Dreamlands, but Oivan had changed his shape hundreds of years ago. Someone must have made copies in the waking world. He didn’t know how comfortable he was with the idea that a dreamer had flipped through him and stolen his secrets. He shook his head and looked furiously down at his biscotti.

 

“I was…I was _saving_ these!” he said, brandishing the near empty jar, “If I don’t eat annually I could very well..."

 

Did he care if he lied to a troublesome ghost? "... _die_ here!”

 

The girl’s face twitched, she wanted to say something about that but decided instead to stand strong, “It wouldn’t kill you to _label_ things then! I got lost like, a _bajillion_ times trying to get out of this stupid place the first time.”

 

Oivan slapped his palm against his forehead.

 

“I am exhausted, why can’t you just leave me to my work?”

 

The girl crossed her arms. “Looks like you’re wearing PJs to me.”

 

Oivan’s own markings flushed as he looked down at himself, then back up at her, “I’m sleeping so I might resume my research upon waking.”

 

 _“Might resume my research upon waking,”_ The girl mimicked in a false deep voice, “Do you have _any_ idea how normal people talk?”

 

That was too much, Oivan gripped the girl by her tiny horns, and carried her to the door as she frantically tried to kick out of his grasp.

 

“Leave me alone, ghost!” he said, tossing her outside onto the stairs.

 

Even as he swung the door it shut, Oivan could hear her shrieking from the other side:

 

  _“I am **not** a ghost!”_

 

* * *

 

Oivan knew from the very moment he sat down at his desk that he was being watched.

 

“Bah, the ghost returns.”

 

The girl’s spirals revealed her first, glowing green before she stepped into the candlelight.

 

“How many _times_ do I-” she said, then took a deep breath, “Okay, I’m not here to argue.”

 

Oivan turned away from her and looked back at his book, “Good. Now leave me alone.”

 

His ear twitched as he heard her squeal with irritation, then stamp her bare foot.

 

“What I _mean_ is,” she said slowly, “That I’m sorry I ate your rock cookies. I didn’t know you needed them and- and I don’t want you to _die._ ”

 

She said those last words rather awkwardly, as if apologising for breaking a flower pot. Oivan turned but before he could correct her, those ‘cookies’ were called _biscotti,_ she shoved a small paper parcel into his arms.

 

“They probably suck, or something,” the girl said, “I’m no cook, and I had to make it out of some stuff I stole from my aunt’s dreams, but I found a book about nutrition and you probably would have gotten scurvy or something if you kept up with those cookies anyway.”

 

Oivan’s brow twitched, waiting for the trick, but again found only determination in the girl’s face. He sighed and nodded, placing them upon his desk and going back to his book. Though he did not hear footsteps he had assumed the girl had left until she spoke up again.

 

“ _Well_?”

 

Oivan turned back to her, “Well what?”

 

“Aren’t you going to open them? Say _thank you?_ ”

 

Oivan groaned into the ceiling. He detested even _reading_ such pleasantries, let alone partaking in them. 

 

Grabbing the parcel, Oivan made an intimate show of unwrapping the gift, glancing back mockingly at her for approval as he pulled every string. The girl only scowled, but nonetheless didn’t look away.

 

Within were little satchels of fried dough, the steam rising to fog Oivan's glasses. Though a little wonky, they resembled empanadas, a Hispanic pastry Oivan had only experienced through the memories he sorted. Something had obviously changed on his face, for when he looked back at the girl she seemed satisfied. That bothered him, though he could not say why, and felt the need to give the most sarcastic gratitude he could muster.

 

“Thank you, little ghost,” he said to her, in an overly honeyed tone.

 

The girl chewed her cheek at him.

 

“And _another_ thing.” She said, striding forward to sit on his desk, much to his own indignation, “Do you spend all this time reading because you’re so _dumb?_ ”

 

“I beg your pardon?”

 

“You don’t even know what a ghost looks like! No wonder you’ve needed to lock yourself in here forever just to figure out how to read!”

 

Oivan looked up at her, stammering with absolute fury.

 

“Just something to think about~” The girl said, hopping off the desk to stride into the shadows.

 

Oivan turned to look after her, his markings glowing angrily. Even as he squinted, she had completely disappeared.

 

All he wanted was to read _._

 

* * *

 

 

“… _A slight trace or vestige of something.”_

 

“Excuse me?”

 

Oivan grunted and held the encyclopedia up to the girl’s face.

 

“Ghost.” He repeated, pointing to the definition, “ _A being or image that represents a slight trace or vestige of something._ Neither of us exist physically within the dreamlands, our bodies are mere representations of our psyche. I know what a ghost is. You are technically a ghost.”

 

The girl squinted to study the passage, but when she looked up she wore a smirk.

 

“Did you spend this whole time looking for that exact definition just to make a comeback?”

 

That smile irked Oivan more than anything the girl had done thus far.

 

“Nerd,” She laughed, “But you can call me Amaranth, if you like.”

 

* * *

 

 

Stillness. Oivan had just noticed there was stillness once again.

 

Well, that was good, wasn’t it? No more banter, no more insults, no more idiotic distractions. Oivan bowed his head to work, but found himself wondering how long exactly it had been. Throwing down his quill, Oivan succumbed to his curiosity and began to pace the quiet halls. He didn’t remember when the last time Amaranth had come, only that she had been gone for longer than ever before. At this point, it was unlikely that she was going to return.

 

But Oivan had always known this would happen, hadn’t he?

 

It was not uncommon for the dead to find themselves caught in the Dreamlands on their way to the afterlife. The girl was a bit young to have passed in her sleep, her voice and proportions put her in her young adulthood, but by her small stature and tiny limbs he could easily see her dying of malnourishment or disease. Perhaps that was the origin of her identity as a Queen, the last manic endorphins of death twisting her perception of herself. That must also by why she stayed in the Dreamlands long enough to make it to Oivan’s Library, her delusions kept her from passing on naturally.

 

Either way, she didn’t have much time here. He had speculated her will could tie her to the Dreamlands for only so long before driving her mad and breaking the connection. Oivan turned to march back to his desk, it was time to return to his work.

 

For whatever reason, he couldn't.

 

Oivan's mind was occupied, he reread the same line over and over. What had been the last thing he had said to her? What would she remember of him in the afterlife? Would she remember  _any_ of her time in The Dreamlands? He certainly didn't receive any memories of the _other_ ghosts who had passed through. Once a waker was dead, they were beyond Oivan's care or influence. It didn't matter, but his ears twitched irritably at the very idea of it. Memories were  _his_ domain, all memories, he should have a right to even those of the dead. Oivan rose from his seat and stalked the Library, looking for books pertaining to psychology, spirituality, and the afterlife. Upon returning Oivan dismissed his current dreamer, shoving his new books onto his desk.

 

He had to know. 

 

Page after page, Oivan only found passages about legends and death rituals, irritably knocking each useless book aside. The Library's annals were based on the collective knowledge of the wakers, they couldn't know any more about what happened in afterlife than he did. Death was another place, another world, but Amaranth hadn't _been_ in that world. She was here. His library, the Dreamlands, they were _technically_ a dimension, weren't they? One could travel to and fro with a pair of that fire demon's scissors, couldn't they? Memories she collected here  _had_ to count as living memories even if she was deceased. Why else would she spend so much time here before passing on? In those final days she seemed lucid, seemed aware of what she was. She must have  _known_ she was going to pass on soon, must have found some book somewhere in here that promised her memories of this place so she could let go without worrying. 

 

But what if she didn't? What if she didn't care at all about him after all that? How couldshe? How  _dare_ she? Coming here, distracting him, getting on his nerves just to forget him in the end, who could do something so...so... _upsetting?_

 

Furious, Oivan stood again, ready to yank his horns out.

 

So she cared about whether or not he ate too many cookies, cared that he wasn't getting enough sleep, teased him for being a 'nerd', but didn't care enough to let him know where she was going? What- was he just a game to her? Did she think she was  _allowed_ to act that way just for nothing? Did it not occur to her to apologise for all the time she wasted? That maybe Oivan might  _want-_

 

That thought stopped him right in his tracks.

 

Oivan froze, his gaze sliding looked to the spot on his desk where she usually sat to annoy him. Amaranth had been so annoying. So very,  _very,_ annoying, and he hadn't shied away from letting her know. Thinking of their interactions, he had told her how annoying she was quite a bit. Oivan pressed his knuckles to his desk, ears drooping. Maybe thats why she left so suddenly. Maybe she had left thinking he hated her, and now there was nothing he could do. She either didn't remember him or was beyond his magic now. 

 

He never got to say goodbye. That sort of thing had just...never come up. 

 

Though she resented being called 'ghost' they didn't discuss her condition at all. Oivan wasn't in the habit of retracing old memories once he had sorted them, always so busy, one could go mad trying to keep track so many dreamers' lives. He didn't know a thing about who she was before, only that she apparently had an aunt who dreamed about food a lot-

 

Once again, Oivan froze.

 

That was right, she had stolen food from her aunt's dream. Invading dreams wasn't within the power of ghosts, barely in the power of most Dreamwalkers. One had to be firmly planted in the Dreamlands for it to work, lest they be lost in an endless stream of consciousness forever. It took powerful magic to anchor one’s soul to the Dreamlands, even more powerful to project oneself into another's mind. Spells of that that nature were found only in the core Library, guarded by lock and key for good reason! Even amongst Oivan's forbidden books, such a violation of one's inner psyche was the stuff of-

 

A thought occurred to Oivan, loud and furious in the stillness.He knocked over his chair in his hurry to snatch up his candle, and his boots clattered against the wood as he rushed to that _particular_ shelf.

 

It was an old rickety thing, the first accumulation of knowledge within the heart of the library. Everything that was here, all the information that was pulled into the Library was because of this shelf, these vital tomes that defined the very foundations of the Dreamlands. For all its grace and surrealist elegance, it only held four volumes. For whatever reason Oivan was the only pillar to take mortal shape- he was the only one who could have protected the others. It was difficult not to panic as he read their names:

 

_The Book of Dreams, The Book of Foresight, The Book Wishes…_

_…_ And a beginner’s baking manual.

 

 _The Book of Nightmare_ was missing.


End file.
